


Back, Back, Back. (Forward.)

by MissjuliaMiriam



Series: Tumblr Prompt Fic [2]
Category: Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Abandonment, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fenris Has Issues, M/M, Reunions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-11
Updated: 2015-03-11
Packaged: 2018-03-17 08:17:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3522044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissjuliaMiriam/pseuds/MissjuliaMiriam
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For a Tumblr prompt from vitious: some HawkeFenris with Fenris tracking Hawke's obnoxious ass down and being rightfully upset about him just up and disappearing</p>
            </blockquote>





	Back, Back, Back. (Forward.)

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, I know myself and I know what I like, and this will probably be expanded into proper fic at some point. I'm just too interested in Fenris and his potential interactions with Solas and Dorian, among others. You can probably see some of the setup for that. A reminder that I haven't played the game, so if there's poor canon-following, well, I learned everything I know from fanfiction. I'm also just handwaving the stuff that's not convenient for me, mostly like... a concrete timeline. Sorry.

It's cloudy, and cold, and miserable, and Fenris wishes he was literally anywhere in the world  _but_ trekking through the Maker-damned Frostbacks in search of some fucking ancient fortress. A messenger with a letter from Varric had caught up with him in a village in rural (and by rural he means utterly backwater) Orlais, where he'd been tracking a cell of slavers headed north. He'd been close on their heels and so had ignored the letter until he had finished his task and found someone to scrub the blood from his armour, and then tried to decipher the dwarf's miserable writer's scrawl. Once he'd gotten through the bulk of the letter, Fenris had found himself wishing for once that he'd let the slavers go; Hawke was at Skyhold, with the Inquisition, and Varric had no idea how long he'd stay.

So, here he was, hunting down the headquarters of the new Inquisition and hoping that Hawke would still be waiting for him when he arrived. Fenris had a few _words_ he wanted to have with Hawke, and if he had to hunt the man to the ends of the earth to have them he damn well would.

The directions he'd been given were poor, but pilgrims and recruits and volunteers were pouring into Skyhold from all over Thedas, and Fenris only had to follow the rough direction of the stream. He stayed off the roads as much as possible, because the staring and the fear and the questions got extremely irritating after a while, and the darker his scowl was the more obnoxious people were. He knew he was a feral thing, but the general public could at least have the courtesy not to look at him like he was a rabid dog, long let loose from his master's leash. Alas.

The hike up into the mountains took Fenris three days, because he lost the path completely at one point and had to fight off a bear before he could find it again, and he has a bloody strip of cloth wrapped around his shoulder when he finally stalks up to the gates of Skyhold. The guards give him a shocked look, and he almost walks right past them before one calls a halt, and Fenris stops and lets them hold him outside of the walls until Varric arrives to vouch for him.

“No armed strangers,” one of the guards says apologetically. He has a lowborn Tevinter accent and auburn hair, with a genial look about him. “Particularly not ones with giant broadswords and frankly intimidating armour.”

“Fair enough,” Fenris replies. He's maybe a little unnecessarily short, but the guard only gives him a wry grin and settles back on his heels. He's carrying an unusual mace, a huge thing with a handle as long as he is tall, and Fenris eyes it curiously.

“I'm not a totally average recruit,” the guard says, when he notices Fenris noticing. “But the Commander was looking for a few extra guards for today, and I figured buying a little more goodwill for my crew can never hurt.” He tugs off one of his gauntlets and offers his hand. “Krem, lieutenant of the Chargers. Who are you, again?”

Fenris considers the man's hand for a minute, then clasps it briefly before pulling away. He doesn't take off his own gauntlet. “Fenris.”

“Oh- you're the one Varric talks about? You said you knew him, yeah?”

Fenris nods, and tries to convey without saying anything that he- well, that he doesn't want to say anything. He didn't come here to make friends; he just wants to get inside the walls and find Hawke.

“He did say you were quiet,” the guard muses, but then he falls silent, and Fenris barely holds back a sigh of relief.

“Broody!”

The sigh escapes, but more as exasperation than relief. “Varric,” he says, and looks up to see the dwarf walking toward him at a brisk pace. There are two elves following him, a slender male elf with Dalish marks on his face and a taller, bald elf with no marks at all, not anyone Fenris knows, and he dismisses them.

“Making Krem's acquaintance, are you?” Varric asks when he gets closer. “He's from Tevinter, you know.”

“I guessed as much,” Fenris says. “Where's Hawke?”

Varric chuckles. “As single-minded as always, I see. Well, hold your horses for a minute and let me make introductions.” He gestures behind him to the shorter elf- he's not unhandsome, a little shorter than Fenris and willowy, dressed in fitted black clothing. “Fenris, this is our mighty Inquisitor, the Herald of Andraste himself, blessed of-”

“Yes, thank you Varric,” the Inquisitor says, and steps forward to offer his hand to Fenris. His left hand is kept curled closed and close to his side. “Nice to meet you, Fenris. Hawke talks about you.”

The familiarity with which the Inquisitor makes Fenris rankle a little, and he forces himself not to let his hackles rise, because if he lets himself get upset now seeing Hawke will be all the harder. “A pleasure,” he says, not even trying to sound sincere. “Varric, Hawke-”

“Easy, Broody. One more. This is Solas- he's a mage, just so you know.”

Fenris eyes him, and then ignores the hand Solas holds out. “Wonderful,” he grunts. “ _Hawke_.”

Solas laughs, withdrawing his hand without seeming offended. “You are an interesting one. Well, we'll speak later, I suppose.”

Fenris ignored him, his attention on Varric, who heaves a long-suffering sigh and waves him forward. “Come on, then.”

Fenris follows, nodding to the guard, Krem. The Inquisitor and Solas don't follow, and when Fenris is sure they ave some privacy, he asks, “Where is he?”

“Probably in the library,” Varric says, and Fenris nods- no surprise. “I should warn you- the library is the regular haunt of our token Tevinter altus, Dorian. If he's with Hawke, please try not to kill him. He's offensive even to the most mild-mannered, and he'd be very good at pushing your buttons. We like him, though, and I'd really rather that you not tear his throat out with your teeth.”

“I don't tear people's throats out with my teeth.”

“With you hands, then. Whatever.”

Fenris can't really say anything to that, so he doesn't. It makes Varric laugh again. “But really, Broody. Don't kill him. Or Hawke, actually.”

“No promises,” Fenris says, though he wasn't really planning to _kill_ Hawke. Just... punch him. Maybe twice. For walking out in the middle of the night, leaving him to wake to a cold bed and a note on the pillow. _I want you to be safe, and I don't know that where I'm going won't be dangerous. You're doing good work, and you don't need me, at least for a while. I'll find you when this is over_. Bullshit. There was a hole in the sky and rifts with demons pouring out of them; Fenris had fought as many of them as he had slavers in the weeks since Hawke had aband- left him, and yet he thought he was safer on his on? No.

Varric is studying Fenris when he glances over again, and Fenris looks away quickly. “He just took off, didn't he?” Varric asks quietly, and Fenris nods only the tiniest bit. Varric curses. “He didn't say. I'm sorry, Fenris- I'd have been quicker about contacting you if I'd known. You know Hawke, though.”

Fenris waves a hand, a rough, jerky movement that makes his wounded shoulder ache. “Leave it, Varric,” he says quietly.

“Sure.”

They make the rest of the walk to the library in silence, though the bustle of the keep surrounds them, and Fenris distracts himself by looking around. Skyhold is busy and populated by every possible sort of person. He hears snatches of different languages on the air, and the accents of every region of Thedas. All four races are represented at least in some part- a huge Qunari is laughing as he fends off the strikes of four- no, five soldiers in a training ring, elves, humans and dwarves all gathered to watch. A large number of the keeps denizens are humans, but there are plenty of pointed ears visible, and Fenris is not sure when he last so many of his own kind intermingled with humans when they were not servants or slaves. Not since he was last in a large city, at least, and even there elves were usually lower-class citizens at best. Mages, too, he notices keenly. Men and women both human and elven walk with staves carried openly on their backs, and it makes Fenris wary. Wary but hesitantly glad, for if other mages are free here so too can Hawke be.

The library is a warm space filled with the quiet crackle of a fire and the smell of ink and paper. There are voices coming from one corner, hidden by a bookshelf, and Varrics mutters another curse before grabbing Fenris's wrist. “Dorian's here,” he mutters. “Hold your temper, if you can.”

“I'll do my best,” Fenris mutters, but Varric's warnings have put him on edge. They round the bookshelf, and two men come into view, leaning close together over a book. One is dark-skinned and dressed in Tevinter fashion, his voice rich with the accent of Fenris's homeland as he speaks. He looks up as they approach, falling quietly, but Fenris can barely afford him any attention- his gaze is fixed on the familiar shaggy fall of black hair across familiar broad shoulders, and he can barely breath as the other man turns, curious about the interruption.

“Oh,” Hawke says, when he finally registers what he's seeing. Fenris realized his lips have parted, and snaps his jaw shut, clenching his teeth so tightly they ache. “Dorian, maybe you should go.”

Dorian looks at Fenris hard, frowns, and then nods and murmurs, “Certainly. We'll continue this later.”

Hawke just waves him away, and the other man slips past Fenris and then both he and Varric are gone and Fenris cannot restrain himself any more. He throws himself at Hawke, uncaring of the points on his armour, uncaring of anything but that his whole world has tilted back onto its right axis.

Hawke's arms come around Fenris so easily, and he clutches him tightly. “Fenris,” Hawke says into his hair, and Fenris cannot stop tears from springing to his eyes as they stand in their desperate embrace. Then he blinks them away, and and shoves Hawke away from him, hard enough that his back thumps against the bookshelf and all the air rushes out of his chest. As he's wheezing, Fenris strips off his right gauntlet and then punches Hawke hard across the jaw, though perhaps not quite hard enough to break it.

“Maker damn you!” Fenris shouts, and the tears return, furious ones this time. “You utter- you left me! In the middle of the damned night, Hawke, I had no idea where you'd gone. How much did you have to pay that innkeeper to refuse to tell me, hm? I asked every person in town which direction you'd gone, but no one had seen you. What if you'd died? What if you'd died and I hadn't been there, and I never saw you again? How long would it have been? It took Varric's letter weeks to reach me! It might have been that long or longer, and you'd be buried or burned by then, and I would have been denied even a goodbye! You ass!” Then he hits Hawke again, while the man is still gaping at him. Not without reason, Fenris supposes. He's not sure he's ever put that many words together in a string in his life, never mind in front of Hawke. He's also sounding a little hysterical, and thinks that maybe he should calm down, but he just- he can't. He's been tightly wound since he got Varric's letter, more than a week ago, and he's been missing Hawke for weeks and weeks. He's been _alone_ for weeks.

“I'm so sorry,” Hawke says, and wraps Fenris back in his arms as soon as he's sure he's not going to get a fist in the gut as well. “I shouldn't have, but I needed to know you were safe. Safer, anyway.”

“The whole of Thedas is crawling with demons, you _utter idiot_ ,” Fenris says, his tone scathing. “There is no such thing is safe. Not safer than we would be together. You need me, and I need you. You can't just- just take off because of some damn Warden business that you get into your head. You are _not a Grey Warden, Hawke_.”

“I know,” Hawke says. “But I thought- I just wanted to help. You know me.”

“I do,” Fenris agrees, “which is why I'm not going to kill you. But you left me, Garrett. _You left me_.”

“I'm sorry.” Hawke is speaking into Fenris's hair, and then leans back just enough to pull his face up for a soft kiss. Fenris sighs against his lips. He hasn't touched anyone in what feels like an age, and Hawke is so warm. So familiar. Safe. “I love you.”

“And I you, you daft bastard,” Fenris mutters against Hawke's mouth. “Tell me you have a bed in this drafty castle.”

“You're one to talk about draft- you lived with corpses for roommates for years,” Hawke reminds, laughing, but he as he does so he grabs Fenris's wrist and leads him out of the library. They leave Fenris's gauntlet behind, lying abandoned on the floor. Neither notices.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos welcome.


End file.
